He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion when a window above stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query—“Who’s there?”
“Who’s there?” screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices
Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the alarm had subsided: and then by a supernatural effort, to get over the wall, or perish in the attempt.
Like all Mr. Pickwick’s determinations, this was the best that could be made under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into the corner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of his own person prevented its being opened to its utmost width.
“Who’s there?” screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half-dressed, and in a forest of curl-papers.
Of course Mr. Pickwick didn’t say who was there: and then the burden of the chorus changed into—“Lor’! I am so frightened.”
“Cook,” said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the very last of the group—“Cook, why don’t you go a little way into the garden?”
“Please, ma’am, I don’t like,” responded the cook.